


The darkness lifts, imagine, in your lifetime

by handfuloftime



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Gen, ice and light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25207456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handfuloftime/pseuds/handfuloftime
Summary: On the long walk south, James Fitzjames thinks about ice.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	The darkness lifts, imagine, in your lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Terror Decameron prompt "icemelt". Originally posted on [tumblr](https://handfuloftime.tumblr.com/post/614604791417585664/the-darkness-lifts-imagine-in-your-lifetime-on).

They’ve left the ice far behind by now. They trudge south, mile after mile after unchanging mile. Old pain seeps back into James’s leg; it’s getting harder for him to hide his limp. Most days now, he catches himself staggering on the edge of falling, the shales slithering under his feet. _The best walker in the service_ , he thinks wryly. That makes him grin, and he tastes blood as his lip splits.

It’s hard to keep track of the days. Nothing green relieves the bare landscape, but spring is passing them by. The heat startles him—who would have thought, in the Arctic? It’s hardly Syria, but he’s sweating through his shirt, and when they halt for the day he can’t stop shivering.

But maybe James should have learned by now: warmth is always where you least expect it. A hand in his, a smile fit to melt the polar ice. A kindness far more than he deserves. Who would’ve thought, indeed.

Not the man he had been, that’s for sure. But he’s left that man behind, somewhere on the long road from the ships. A discarded costume. _Things will drop away_. With every step he takes, he feels like he’s walking a little further into a new world.

Provided he can keep his feet. 

* * *

He dreams about the ice, sometimes. It makes a blessed change from screams and fire and the stench of roast duck, from blood on the snow and a line useless in his hands. He dreams of a summer rain, of leads opening up at the last possible moment. Of the labyrinth spitting the ships out, to turn and limp back across the Atlantic. Home to heal in a quiet summer, far from the sea.

And they’d walk arm in arm beside a river flooded with green. Light on the surface of the water and the scattered lilies. The sun warming their tired bones, and the sky blue and clean above. Birds calling in the distance. Entirely free.

But it’s too late, now.

The sky is empty and the sun looks down on him indifferently. As the boat grinds over the rocks, James feels like he could fall into the sky. Like the only things pinning him to the earth are the nails through his arm and his shin and his side, like the wind will blow right through him. But the hand on his shoulder is an anchor, keeping him still. 

A memory drifts back to him later, in the closeness and the guttering lamplight. The last day in the Whalefish Islands, when he’d climbed one of the hills and looked out over the sea. More icebergs than he could imagine, as far as he could see, and he’d sat there in the sunlight and the fresh salt breeze, counting them. He’d written about it to, to… He’d written about it: _And beautiful objects they are_.

It’s so clear: the blue, blue sea filigreed with ice, and the light all around. The glory of it. But it’s hard to hold the image in his mind—the sea and the ice slip through his fingers like water, and James comes back to himself. His face is wet, and Francis’s hand is gentle on his throat.

But the light stays.

**Author's Note:**

> Louise Glück's "The Undertaking" provided the title and general inspiration.
> 
> "And beautiful objects they are," is from Fitzjames's letter to his foster brother William Coningham, dated July 11th 1845 from the Whalefish Islands.


End file.
